


Caelocke: A Series

by CelibateChicken



Series: Make Caelocke Canon, Cowards [1]
Category: Generator Rex
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Dating, Established Relationship, First Meetings, M/M, Nicknames, One Shot Collection, Partners in Crime, Pre-Relationship, Prison
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-03-20 19:19:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18998893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelibateChicken/pseuds/CelibateChicken
Summary: "I am just curious about why it is so important for you to know someone's favorite color?""Not just someone's favorite color, but your favorite color!""I hardly see the correlation."A series of interactions between Dr.Caesar Salazar and Pirate King Gatlocke across the multiverse.





	1. Trial of Salazar - Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So, I take it you aren't the type to believe that God created us a certain way because he had some sort of important reason or anything like that?"  
> "Speaking from experience, it's entirely possible for us to figure out a way to change that."  
> "Your parents must have really ripped the band-aid off when they told you about Santa then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I... Don't know how prison work, but this is fanfiction so --- Yeah!!

The scientist sighed tiredly, leaning back against thick concrete. His cell was a simple 4-wall quarters, only claustrophobic enough to fit an elevated platform with a thin mattress and a metallic toilet and sink set; he sat on the makeshift bed with his leg pulled up to his chest.

He should consider himself fortunate, all things considered, though. As he was being lead through the jail, offenders of more minimum crimes were all seen crammed into cells being filled twice their maximum capacity. Having been labeled a dangerous terrorist has its benefits in that sense as he was immediately placed into solitary confinement when he got here. With not even a window to look out of and the only way in or out being through a heavy, remote-operated, solid steel door, the idea was to keep him completely isolated from everyone else.

Almost completely isolated.

A small vent was located on the wall that he was leaning against, positioned a foot above his head. The scientist wasn't familiar with the prison designs, so he wasn't certain if it was meant for some sort of air conditioning, heating, or maybe even a poorly-designed speaker.

Moments after getting settled and the guards had left him be, Caesar was quick to learn that he had a neighbor in the cell next door as a voice filtered through the vent.

"Hello?"

"Uh... Hello?"

"Oh, you have no idea how good it is to have a new housemate!"

"House-"

"I have been trapped here for days, weeks, years!"

"Ah-"

"I can barely remember what sunlight feels on my face or the excruciating pain of my eardrums being blown out. My only companion here has been Mzingo, but all he does is talk about politics and complain about his cats, or am I just remembering an episode from a show I watched as a boy?"

So, was this the guards' choice of cruel and unusual punishment then? They were going to irritate him to death?

Caesar couldn't help a low growl as he shut his eyes and tried to will away the chattering that was bouncing around his skull. Pain throbbed up and down his body from hunger, thirst, stress, lack of sleep, exhaustion, along with the rest on his list of problems. In short, he was ready to snap.

"You know what's interesting about lions is the roars that you hear them do in films and TV: all fake; a lion roar is no better than a fork in the garbage disposal. You know, I always thought that those were fake -garbage disposals- but it turns out..."

In the past, Caesar had been told that HE was socially-deprived, but he had never been forced into solitary for so long like this guy. Maybe we'll get to see what happens when he does, he thought, darkly.

"One thing I definitely miss about the outside world are online cat videos, videos about dogs running to their owner who just came back from the war, Thai Insurance commercials, videos about people making crunchy slime, but not videos about people making cloud slime..."

To be quite honest, Caesar was tired. The past few months had been nothing but non-stop finger-pointing, aggressive and intrusive questioning, and lawyers and others telling him what he can or can't do/say. Just the very thought made him collapse on his side on the platform bed; his thump and sigh went unnoticed.

"I have always loved his work in the past, but I have to say that his character as not just an actor but also a person was perfectly embodied in his genie character. Nobody could do what he did..."

One of the worst parts about all of this was the fact that he has been prohibited from working. No building, no fixing, no programming, no hacking, no testing, no setting foot in his lab, at all. Because of liabilities, dangerous territory, bad press, excuses, excuses. He was starting to really despise lawyers and their endless miles of paperwork and legislative jargon.

"This song has been in my head since I've arrived, but I have completely forgotten the chorus! I'll finish my sentence here before I'll remember it. I really adore America's pop culture-culture; you all make the best and truly the worst things here. Oh that reminds me: lions! King of the jungle, actually really underwhelming..."

It was only about a week ago, after about 2 months of not being able to do anything, that he was finally officially arrested and sent to be transferred here. For now, he was to await the date of his trial. As if it was any better, more isolation, more restrictions, more nothing to do.

It was not as if he had never been left alone for hours or even days without another person's company, but it was the lack of stimulation that was agitating; his mind was constantly racing with thoughts and ideas, but his hands were tied up, sometimes literally with a pair of handcuffs. It was like a balloon ready to burst if he couldn't find some sort of relief, a way to release his stress, and if media and the law were going to call him malicious among other things, they should give him a few more days in this state and see what he's like then.

But his new housemate didn't know any of this, and again, Caesar didn't feel like sharing this information. So in the meantime, he chose to just passively listen to the other ramble on. As much as the scientist would rather be permitted his own space, the back of his mind did find minor relief in not being forced to listen to the insistent advice of an attorney for once. At this point, he'll take the annoying Brit next door for the time being.

" I would love to fight a lion. Then, the pride lands would be mine! Everything that would touch the sun or..."

* * *

At a certain point, Caesar eventually began to reply back to the never-ending tirade of his neighbor who was actually quite eager to start a conversation. As time ticked on, the two had flowed in and out of discussion, and even when Caesar had fallen into silence, his companion always was able to fill the conversation on his own.

"Aren't these cells supposed to be solitary confinement?" Caesar actually had been wondering this since the moment that he arrived, but he might as well ask now, "Shouldn't there be more isolation if we can still hear each other?"

"Two words - Wait, no, three words: Knock-Out Gas. These vents allow the guards to fill the rooms with the stuff and put us to sleep when we get difficult."

Beat.

Sitting up, Caesar felt a familiar thrumming building from the bottom of his chest, "Really? What do they use? General anesthetics, Methoxyflurane, Chloroform, or is it their own formula?"

"Hm, I actually don't know-"

"Unsupervised use of anesthetics is extremely dangerous. How could they measure the correct amount to deliver while we're all in our cells? I don't recall them taking thorough information of my medical history or current physical health, at least for a non-lethal dosage."

"Unfortunately, I've only heard campfire stories about it, but believe me, I have been trying to get them to use it on me! Maybe it's just broken."

"You were trying to get poisoned?"

"Or maybe we're just sitting in our own coffins, having our lives be at the total mercy of the warden -which would be entirely illegal and kind of offensive, by the way!" That last comment seemed to be more directed towards the guards outside the room, "Though, jail or prison, convicted or not, nobody really cares enough about the way that criminals are treated in here to stop unethical, totalitarian-esque procedures."

"Perhaps it's just too much for their budget. All that anesthetic meant to simultaneously fill up, who knows, how many cells at the same time?" Caesar didn't want to think about his trial or being in jail right now. Instead, he wanted to focus on the enigmatic logic of poisonous prison vents, "And that's not even taking into account the individual height and weight of every prisoner on this block to make sure that they don't overdose just for being too rowdy. It's an entirely inefficient process, even in theory."

"I sure hope the interior designer was fired. Ventilation aside, there's absolutely no personality in these rooms. If we're going to be locked up here, they could have at least given it a little life. It's like a prison cell in here! Just because some of us have broken a law or two doesn't mean we should be treated like tasteless animals."

Caesar hummed in acknowledgement, but the question of ventilation was still pulling at his focus. He pushed himself off of his bed and began to pace up and down the small cell.

While he did have some points regarding the ethics of the US Prison System, the scientist's current beef wasn't with how justice had failed him but how his own logic did, "It'd also be a bit of an overkill. If they wanted to do a competent job, they could have used something like loaded blow darts or tossed a can containing a light dosage of sedative into the individual inmate's room? Somehow I doubt that this facility would know how to properly clear out the vents after filling them with a randomized dosage of what is essentially poison."

"Oooh, you get sassy when it comes to the chemistry of poisoning criminals!" The other inmate, mood shifted, snickered, "Not that I really mind the vents, the two of us get to spend some quality time together and bond, thanks to it. Oh, it's just like a Summer Camp! Or a '50-Years-to-Life' Camp for some of us."

"...Are there other prisoners on this block? I haven't heard anyone else yet."

"Your guess is as good as mine. You're the first one that I've heard since they tossed me in here so rudely! For all we know, the two of us could just be considered the most dangerous inmates on campus. Which, hideous jumpsuit aside, I am flattered by."

"If you want to take it that way-"

"So, what're you in for?"

"W, what was that?"

"What did they catch you doing that was so bad that you ended up neighbors with someone of my notoriety?"

"...Tax evasion."

"Wow. Auditors must really be coming down hard on people nowadays."

"Yeah... Está loco. It's crazy." Of course, Caesar wasn't actually arrested for forgetting to pay his taxes or anything like that, but he really didn't feel like talking about how he was currently awaiting his trial for causing the Nanite Event.

They never did find out what was with the vents.

* * *

"To put it simply, it's the sun light traveling through the atmosphere," Caesar replied, curled on his side, mentally tracing the patterns of the concrete brick across from him, "Light travels in wavelengths, and when they enters our atmosphere, they collide with gas molecules like nitrogen and oxygen, and the longer wavelengths appear as sunlight's reds and yellows while the shorter wavelengths appear as blue."

"Then, why isn't sky yellow or red and the sun blue instead?"

"Well, when the shorter wavelengths bump into the molecules, they scatter in different directions with most of it reflecting back into our eyes. It's not that the sky IS blue, it just so happens that the color that reflects back to us is blue."

"Who decided that it should be blue anyway?"

"We don't choose to be created the way that we are, but we can always alter it."

"So, I take it you aren't the type to believe that God created us a certain way because he had some sort of important reason or anything like that?"

"Speaking from experience, it's entirely possible for us to figure out a way to change that."

"Your parents must have really ripped the bandaid off when they told you about Santa then."  
The strangest part of all of this was that they had yet to actually properly introduce themselves. Caesar never gave out his name, and in his mind, this guy was simply known as the Chatty Englishman -Chat for short (Caesar was willing to acknowledge his lack of creativity for names, but it worked efficiently either way).

* * *

Chat was quite the character. Caesar couldn't tell if the other's eccentricities were a result of his extended time in solitary or if he was probably always like that. He talked a lot, hence his nickname, and had no filter, and if he were being honest, Caesar couldn't tell if it was still annoying or actually endearing by this point. Of Chat's other quirks was his habit to speak whatever immediately came to his mind.

"Roomie," the Brit called, addressing Caesar by his own nickname (Originating by the idea that he consider Caesar his roommate, equal amount of creativity), "Are you Mexican?"

"Excuse me?"

Chat burst out laughing, "Haha oops, I mean, your accent, it sounds Spanish. What are you, exactly, describe yourself to me."

Blunt phrasing aside, Caesar chose to answer in favor of a change of subject, "My mother was born in Mexico City, Mexico, and my father was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina."

And I have a little brother named Rex.

"Ooh, I like that! Is your Spanish any good then? Can I hear some?"

"Eres tonto."

"Ooh, wow! I love it! What does it mean?"

"...I said that I think the weather was nice."

"'Eres tonto'," Chat repeated the phrase, though his accent butchered the pronunciation, "Oh, I am definitely going to sprinkle that into conversations from now on."  
Caesar, thrown back by that response, was pleasantly amused by the other's actions, especially when he was asked to teach him more phrases. Appreciating the other's enthusiasm, he decided to actually teach the other for real this time, "Conejo, it means 'rabbit'."

"Ko-neigh-ho?"

The butchering was strong, and Caesar facepalmed, but there was a twitch of his mouth, and his face felt stiff like he hadn't smiled in a while, "Ay dios mio, okay, try this: co-ne-ji-to."

"That's what I'm saying, Ko-neh-hido."

"You really aren't."

"What does that one mean?"

"Conejito? It's 'little rabbit' instead of 'conejo', rabbit. You can add '-ito' to some words to do that. I've seen some of my elders do that when they nickname los primitos like a term of endearment to cute things."

"How do you say 'jail' or 'prison'?"

"Cárcel."

"Cárcelito."

"Not like that." Caesar laughed, "Try this: Peinabombillas."

"What does that even mean?"

"Peinabombillas."

"Pain-bombillas."

"Close. Pe-i-na-bom-bi-llas."

"Ugh, give me another one!"

"Okay, eres tan feo que hiciste llorar a una cebolla."

"Eres tonfeo que hissy-stay llorar auna seboya." Confident but oh-so wrong.

Caesar, unable to hold it in any more, burst out laughing. His whole body curled in on himself as he lay shaking on his bed, hitting the pillow against the wall as he attempted to gasp in air. The laughter made his face sore, his head ache, his vision swim, and his stomach cramp, but it was a pain that he had needed to feel for months now.

"You laugh, but you wouldn't be so carefree if I was over there to knock your head in!"

* * *

Despite their in-depth discussions and inside jokes, there were moments between the two where they have harsh reminders of where they were. A rough interaction with a guard or an accidental encounter with another inmate or just the sight of the food they were delivered everyday in their cell.

Chat was often open about his disgust of the conditions of their facility, meals included. One time, Caesar heard no open complaints but after knowing him for a while, the scientist learned to sense when he was brooding; it was out-of-character to his usual flamboyant self, but the scientist found it was best to just let the other stew in silence as his mood passed.

"Bread and something red?" Caesar described, testingly knocking his toast on the wall that resulted in a discouraging rapping noise.

"If there is a hell," Chat spoke up, "American prisons would be one level right above it. Being locked up in a concrete box for half a year won't erase your existence from the world."

Caesar frowned, something negative filling his chest as he was briefly brought back down to Earth, his upcoming court date was pressing on his back like a heavy weight.

"It will if nobody remembers you," the scientist replied passively, setting aside his tray to continue counting the threads on his jumpsuit.

The Brit let out a dry chuckle and drawled, "If an inmate falls inside a concrete prison cell, and no one is around to hear him, did he actually fall?"

* * *

As time passed, Chat and Caesar's frequent conversations through the ventilation shaft dwindled away, but not because they ran out things to say.

"Hey, Roomie."

Caesar, face buried in a flat pillow, hummed in response; he wasn't tired, but there was only so much that the space of his room allowed him to do, and sleep was how he spent half of his time.

"Want to get out of here?"

The scientist, half-conscious, muttered, "Yeah, that'd be nice..."

A laugh, "What's stopping you then?"

"A foot of concrete and steel and my criminal record."

"Come on, don't be so negative! If you join my gang, that stuff won't matter."

"Okay."

"Love your enthusiasm! For initiation, I'm going to need your social security number."

* * *

He was already awake when the ground began to shake. For the first time, Caesar could hear noises behind the door.

Several voices yelling before a barrage of explosions and gunfire joined the mix, a moment of panic surged through his mind as he realized that he had no way to defend himself, and especially in the state that he was in now, there's no way that he could survive through physical strength alone. Caesar snapped his head towards the vent, about to call out to Chat when a loud click rang across from him.

With a slow hum, the steel door that he had become familiar with had begun to swing open. The room filled in with some smoke as well as the scent of ash and gunpowder from the hallway; he could hear the mixed yells of panic and aggression much more clearly now. Amongst the gray clouds, a figure in orange strided into his cell.

Tall brown hair and a matching goatee, a mischievous and wild glint in his eyes, and he adorned the same jumpsuit as Caesar. He had no arms, his left side ended with his sleeve tied in a knot while his right adorned a prosthetic; it began at the base of his shoulder and appeared as if it were just the black metal skeleton of a once whole design. Considering the dangerous expression, the prison might have stripped down this inmate's original prosthetic to its bare parts for the safety of others.

"You must be my Roomie," the intruder grinned, the familiar British accent, unfiltered by the echo of a vent, was a song in Caesar's ears, "You're much more adorable than I imagined!"

"...Chatty Englishman?"

"Aww, was that your nickname for me? I love it!" He held a claw to his chest, appearing sincerely touched, "But as the newest member of the Anarchists, you are to address your leader -that's me- by my real name: Gatlocke."


	2. Favorite Color

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> High School AU, pre-relationship. Gatlocke has a question for Caesar that is a bigger deal than they thought.

"So Caesar, my dear, what is your favorite color?"

Caesar Salazar, the boy in question, nearly jumped in surprise when a familiar accented voice appeared out of nowhere. He quickly regained his composure, though, when he turned his head and recognized the upbeat grin of Gatlocke as he kept in step with his Hispanic friend as they walked down the school hall.

"Oh hola, Gatlocke. Shouldn't you be with your, er, gang? That's what you called yourselves, right?"

"What, can't I choose to walk down the hallway with my best friend as I ask him what his favorite color is?" swinging an arm around his companion's shoulder, Gatlocke pulled him close.

"I'm your best friend?"

"Well," his delinquent friend's voice went up a pitch and turned doting as he ruffled a hand through tall black hair, "you definitely are my favorite."

"Really?" Caesar paused for a moment; the familiar words and physical contact caught him off guard, but he was surprisingly pleased by it. He returned a genuine and relaxed smile, "Gracias, I think you are a good friend, too."

Gatlocke felt the air leave his lungs looking at his expression but turned away and sighed, dramatically, "You really are oblivious."

"What are you talking about?"

"Nevermind," making a quick recovery, Gatlocke turned back with the same, adoring grin he always gave his inventive companion, "Back to what I was saying, do you have a favorite color?"

Deciding to let the other's vague words slide, Caesar shrugged it off as Gatlocke's usual antics, "Actually, the question was 'what is your favorite color?'"

"So, you were listening!" the more outgoing of the two laughed and teasingly bumped into his oblvious friend, "What is it then?"

"Why is it so important for you to know?"

"Why are you so suspicious?!"

"I'm not suspicious," Caesar couldn't help the amused smile at his friend's offended expression, "I am just curious about why it is so important for you to know someone's favorite color?"

"Not just someone's favorite color, but your favorite color!"

"I hardly see the correlation."

Gatlocke shook his head in disbelief and muttered to himself.

"What?"

"Okay, maybe I'm getting you a gift, and I need to know what color you like for the wrapping paper!" Gatlocke waved his free hand as his brain worked out the most believable BS he could come up with on the spot.

"Oh, any color would be fine."

"Oh, my God."

"You don't need to get me anything, though," Caesar hummed, unaware of his friend's frustration, as he went into thought, "I wouldn't want to make you do that, especially when the things I want, I can just get them myself."

"How about I just guess, and you tell me if I'm right?" Gatlocke huffed and felt his eyebrow twitch, but he refused to give up.

"Gatlocke, I really don't have one."

"Now, now, Cae-Cae, we're playing a game now," waving a finger, the English boy regained his playful smirk.

"Okay, I think I got it," Gatlocke rubbed his hands together and nodded with determination, "Give me three chances to guess. If I guess right, then the two of us go to the movies this weekend. If I guess wrong, then the two of us still go to the movies this weekend."

"Okay." just in time, the boys stopped in front of Caesar's next class. Interestingly enough, the Hispanic boy felt disappointed with how short this walk to his next period was than it usually felt.

"I think I know the answer already, though." Puffing out his chest and resting his hands on his hips with confidence, the English boy wore a cocky smirk that amused his friend who patiently waited for his response.

Taking a dramatic pause in his usual style, he took a deep breath and grinned, "It's YELLOW!"

Caesar was ready to say no. Since the start of their conversation, he had already told Gatlocke that he didn't have a favorite color because really, what was the point? No evidence has been produced stating that favoring a particular shade, some combination of Red, Blue, and Green, could provide any advantage intellectually, physically, or even, socially. None ever really appealed to him, aesthetically, also. And yellow? By default, it was too bright and too distracting, and when mixed with other colors, it produced a hue similar to dirty water, and Caesar didn't rank colors, but if he did, then yellow would be at the bottom. Yet the moment Gatlocke spoke that color with such enthusiasm and with a beaming smile that spoke volumes of adoration and hope, Caesar couldn't help but smile from the childish excitement his best friend was radiating.

Suddenly, yellow was his favorite color.

"...You got it." Both boys were surprised by his response.

"First try?!" The young inventor mirrored his companion's ecstatic expression and nodded, eagerly, before being nearly knocked over by a sudden squeezing hug from Gatlocke, "YES! That's amazing! I told you I could guess it!"

For once, Caesar didn't know what else to say next as he found himself leaning into the embrace.

Though the next period had to start eventually, and the ring of the bell only reminded them of that. Reluctantly, the duo separated with matching smiles on their faces.

Crowds of other students began to stream through the halls more urgently to get to their respective classes. Lockers slammed closed, footstep after footstep looped up and down the hallway, and the mix of varying conversations flowed around people like a smoke filling the corridor. Bodies brushed passed them either with quick apologies while some pushed more roughly with irritated grunts, and Gatlocke had even said something to him before leaving, but all Caesar could think about was how much he loved the color yellow.

Even as he filed into his class and took notes and read textbooks and answered questions, all he could focus on was his wooden #2 pencil and its yellow, glossy coating. He never noticed it before, but the girl who sat in front of him had hair that looked exactly like golden silk, but she kept it tied up by a tacky, sequin scrunchie; he had to stop himself from cutting a lock off for him to analyze under a microscope at home. During lunch, he forgot to eat in favor of dissecting a banana peel in the biology lab because there is no way food should be that vibrant. He almost had to go to the nurse's office from the headache he got when he found himself staring too long at the flickering lights in the ceiling and the way they just glowed an engrossing flaxen shade.

In these everyday objects and things he saw all the time, he found a new fascination with them, and with that fascination was constant reminders of things he loved: his love for knowledge, his love for science, his love for creation, his love for technology, his love for learning new things. Now everytime he sees something that even reminds him of yellow, he feels his heart race and his mood boost. Never had he felt this way about any other color, and before, the color yellow was just another hue that would pass him by, but now it's always on his mind. It was illogical for him to feel so emotionally invested in something like this and unfamiliar for him to be so passionate about something other than his beloved sciences, yet the fact was undeniable: he was in love. With the color yellow.


	3. Bulletproof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If science was a person, the pirate would have thrown them off a cliff before Caesar could go down on one knee for them.

Gatlocke frowned at the bulky, white vest with disdain, "Couldn't you at least have decorated it with some slimming stripes or a nice belt? I know you're not one for accessorizing, Caesar, but when you go into battle, you want to at least leave a pretty corpse."

"Don't worry, this is only the prototype. The white is just temporary, to see any of the damages from shrapnel or otherwise that we could do to it. We can give it a skull-print and a cape when we're done if you want. No corpses necessary when you're bulletproof."

"Please. Capes?" Gatlocke guffawed, giving a sweeping gesture down his form, "We only wear cloaks here."

"What's the difference?"

"I would gladly kill for you, but if you ever insult me like that, again, I will have no other choice but to crush you like can of pop."

Caesar nodded, pleasantly occupied, "Sure, but only after we shoot at your man here, a few times."

Testing this new armor was an Anarchist that Gatlocke had volunteered for Caesar. Standing some feet away from the pair, the skull-masked figure adorned the new armor with reluctance.

"So, is this the kind of thing with the giant metal plate inside?"

"Well, yes and no," The scientist hummed, one hand holding his chin in thought with the other resting on his hip, "Since we obviously couldn't use vibranium for this design since that material doesn't actually exist, I had to come up with my own sort of material that simulates the properties of it, at least in regards to its abilities as an armor."

"So what's it made out of then?" Gatlocke asked, mimicking the other's in-thought pose and expression as if it would help him comprehend his boyfriend's scientific ramblings better.

Now, it wasn't like Gatlocke wasn't listening or didn't not understand what the other was saying, most of the time, but he just found Caesar's little tics and quirks to be infinitely more intriguing than the density of tungsten or the process of designing a self-repairing armor.

As the pirate watched the scientist go into his lengthy explanation involving the terms "velocity" and "kinetic energy", the latter's familiar childish excitement began to unveil itself; the usual out-of-sync-from-reality attitude becoming replaced by a focused passion that overcome him specifically for his research and inventions. Like a boy being presented with his first video game instead of a self-designed and untested bulletproof vest.

A couple of nights ago, Gatlocke had dragged Caesar out of his lab to watch a movie together. (As usual, Caesar paid for everything.) They went to see a recently popular superhero film that had enough colorful effects and sci-fi concepts to keep the scientist's attention for the couple of hours, and as for Gatlocke, he loves brilliant action and a good villain.

From the moment that the two left the theater, Caesar had been beaming with inspiration, rambling endlessly and rapidly on the theoretical technologies developed in the film. Truth be told, it's hard enough to keep him quiet during the movie itself, but Gatlocke wasn't much better in that regard, so neither cared about the dirty looks and shushing that they received throughout the watch. There was a reason they had to travel so far just to watch a film when they've been kicked out of quite a few theaters already.

It was easy to tell that Caesar enjoyed himself, "Body armor that not only stops bullets but also absorbs their kinetic energy? Redistributing that same energy to use against your opponents?" Lost in his racing thoughts, Caesar threw his arms in wide arcs and fast and hard gestures to emphasize his point, nearly knocking into passerbys, "He was attacking with the momentum of actual gunfire! It's brilliant! Vibranium would have been so useful for my past works."

Gatlocke, meanwhile, was as equally as hyped from the film and returned with his own quips and praises, "While I did adore the Jabari Tribe's conviction and their successful removal from mainstream society, that Klaw character was just a card- Oh, we should get a pet rhinoceros; no, two!"

The two of them, both ramblers in their own regards, would end up talking into the night, once again. What started as compliments on the film's graphics and action scenes had, at one point, spiraled into a discussion on the politics relating to superheroes where they even pulled comparisons from their present situation with a world-famous superhero of their own, Rex. Though not too long after that, they had delved into the conspiracy of secret societies across the globe, like Wakanda, that consisted of species of aliens, lost kingdoms, religious sects, and mutant lizard shapeshifters. Eventually, and surprisingly so late into the conversation, the Anarchist had suggested that Caesar build him a pair of new arms made of "vibranium"; jokingly or not was the idea, the scientist was more than up for the challenge as a determined grin spread across his face while the exhaustion of the long night seemed completely foreign despite the late hour.

At times, Gatlocke envied and despised the effect that science had on his boyfriend, often feeling that the other's work was prioritized above him and even Caesar's self-regard, and if science was a person, the pirate would have thrown them off a cliff before Caesar could go down on one knee for them. Though despite the jealousy/loathing he holds for the practice and its influence, the expression of absolute excitement on Caesar's face was more intense than any flying shrapnel flying at his head or combusting ice cream truck in the middle of the desert; nothing gave him a more extreme feeling of simultaneously falling and being shot at than Caesar in science mode.

"Long story short," Caesar concluded, dizzy and nearly out of breath but with a smile like Christmas Day, "It is a hybrid of both designs with the functionality of the soft vest but the reinforced durability of the hard-plate, thanks to the use of nanotechnology."

"Well, what could possibly go wrong?" All the Gatlocke had else to reply with was a mirroring grin and a pair of jazz hands.

"Okay, so now we shoot him."

Without a moment's hesitation, Gatlocke had transformed his arm into a cannon and had blasted a red stream of energy at the unfortunate target. The unnamed Anarchist's scream, the resulting explosion, and the scattering of rocks and debris followed.

It was a brief moment of letting the smoke clear and the sizzling remains die out before Caesar spoke up.

"The vest, Gatlocke." He corrected, an unused pistol in his hand, "Shoot the vest."


	4. Bloody Valentine Got Me Lovesick, Except It's Not February (3+ Puns)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caesar's been feeling a bit under the weather for a while, and it's probably Gatlocke's fault.

"Don't worry, Caesar," Gatlocke grinned, reminiscent of a hyper child with twigs in his hair and scrapes on his knees, "This blood isn't even mine!"

Caesar's failed attempt to smile back, came off as more of a grimace.

Deep and heavy red weighed down the pirate's cloak as it was clumsily tossed to the side, yet still, plenty of it has managed to already soak through and leave prominent stains on Gatlocke's torso. Though the Anarchist claimed to have been feeling fine, aside from the usual bruising, scratches, and a ringing in his ears that was "probably not even worth worrying over". Still, the scientist, ever the meticulous, insisted on checking over for any major injuries that needed to be tended to. It wouldn't be the first time that the adrenaline had Gatlocke overlooking a broken bone or two, or six.

"They said that I only had internal bleeding," He had told Caesar once, "That's where the blood is supposed to be!"

You'd think that having replaced parts of his body with mechanical prosthetics would have aided him during fights in both offense and defense, but instead, the pirate seems to have taken that rather as a challenge and actively seeks out ways to test his body's limits, metal or flesh. Caesar can always rebuild him, he supposed.

So, what was the problem, again?

"I'm starting to think that you're purposely getting hurt just to get my attention, lately." There was no malice in his tone, but it felt similar to an adult scolding a troublemaking kid, especially with how Caesar had Gatlocke seated on his work table as he looked him over.

"I didn't get hurt, though!" Gatlocke corrected, smile still wide, almost teasing, "I was simply at work, doing what I usually do every other day."

"Robbing people in the desert?"

"I prefer to see it more as a Robin Hood-esque endeavour. Steal from the privileged and give to the needy."

"Who's the needy?"

"Me, of course! I need things. Nice things."

"Don't your sell some of what you steal anyways?"

"But I keep the stuff that they won't miss-" Gatlocke clicked his tongue and held a hand to his heart, dramatically, "I must admit that I'm hurt by your lack of knowledge on what I do for a living."

"Quit moving so much," Caesar absently continued to banter as he finished looking over the other's bios, setting aside a scanner that he was finished using, "and don't pirates just pillage things? A marauder?"

"I am an Anarchist, a businessman, AND a scoundrel. A man of many talents and dimensions. It's my whole thing!"

As the Anarchist joked and raved, Caesar gently handled Gatlocke's arm like it was made of glass, eyeing it with criticism as he testingly moved the joints. He started at the shoulder before moving down to the elbow, then wrist until he came to the fingers. Softly laying the cold metal flat against his own hand, he ran his free hand over the ridges and shallow scratches on the surface. It was like working on any other invention of his where the whirring and creak of each movement were like white noise that sent him into a state of peace and focus. Chatter and distractions lowered to a mumble as the world blurred around him.

The movement of the joints seems to be working just fine. Though unsurprisingly, there's dirt and rubble lodged in-between as well as some dents and deeper scratches that he would need to tend to. Perhaps he should remove the limbs for now as he repaired the damage then return it. Not to mention, he also has to check the state of the weapons system; the blades to be sharpened and make sure there isn't any coolant leakage to prevent any potential for overheating in the future. Maybe this was due for an upgrade anyhow. A fire suppression option may be especially useful.

Suddenly, those same metal fingers were interlocked with his own; the abrupt contact of cold to the warmth of his skin and tissue made Caesar jump, pulling him out of his own mind.

He forced his eyes away from the technology and looked up to see the Anarchist smiling down at him; his expression demonstrated a rare state of softness, contradictory with the sharpness of his cheekbones, his boisterous personality, and the splatters of dark red decorating his clothes. Most people would be reprimanding Caesar for drifting off in the middle of a conversation or rolling their eyes as they dismissed his behavior as another one of his eccentrics.

"You look so cute when you lose focus like that," Caesar should consider himself lucky that Gatlocke wasn't most people then. Neither dripping with sarcasm nor addressed with any hint of condescendation, his companion spoke very clearly with a fondness that was definitely unlike how any of his other inventions could do for him, at least so far.

"I, uh, ¿gracias?" Maybe he was the one in need of an internal maintenance check; he could feel himself heating up as his train of thought began to short-circuit, "You... Most of your injuries seem to be superficial, and the damage to your arms is, as usual, but I'd like to add a couple of modifications to them anyway."

"Whatever you say, Doctor!" Gatlocke nodded, leaning in much closer than necessary.

Caesar couldn't help but mirror the other's smile. The beating in the scientist's chest was quickening, and it was similar to moments in the past of anxiety that he experienced this type of physical reaction. Perhaps he could retrace any sort of potential fear that he may be feeling back to his possible concerns over Gatlocke's well-being, yet that wasn't quite right. Gatlocke gets blown up and thrown over cliffs all the time, and he always gets back up, quips and guns already firing away. It wasn't really Caesar's desire to rebuild Gatlocke, could he help it; it wasn't really his desire to change the Anarchist at all. Caesar actually really loved that about him.

Wait...

Oh, that's what this is.

Dios mio, did love have to feel so much like he was dying all the time?

"You make me sick!" Caesar realized, slapping his own forehead.

Gatlocke, meanwhile, was momentarily heartbroken, "What did I do??"

"No! I mean," the scientist laughed, almost a bit crazily; a rush of adrenaline from his eureka moment filled his brain with so many chemicals that he was shuffling words and struggling to adequately explain, "I really like you, and I just figured out why being with you... Makes me feel like death all the time."

Gatlocke eyed Caesar, suspiciously for a few moments, and the feeling of doubt almost sank the scientist's heart before the pirate regained his usual buoyant grin, "I completely get what you mean!"

"You do?" Caesar's mind and body were on a roller coaster by this point.

"Of course! In the beginning, I loved you so much that it made sick, and I had to blow up about 5 and a half cars before I felt better. Now, I just visit you at work instead."

"Oh, wow."

"I have that effect on a lot of people, though, don't worry. You just need to work on expressing your feelings (for me!) in a healthy manner!"

"Well, I think I already have an idea in mind..."

Nervous energy as well as the sudden urge to kiss Gatlocke only occupied his mind. It was a familiar compulsion for him to want to abruptly fall into tunnel vision for a certain task, but it was unfamiliar for that task to be... Gatlocke. And violently misguided expressions of affection aside, Caesar really wanted to do it.

If anything, doing it just made his heart beat faster and his stomach feel like it was somersaulting, yet it was just like that, and he was already feeling much better.

As Caesar closed the space between them, he didn't even realize that he had been tracing over the details of Gatlocke's arms with his free hand while the other was still firmly intertwined with the Anarchist's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Pride Month, everyone!


End file.
